Writing with Depression
By Rheea Mukherjee | February 4, 2022 |
There’s a trope we’ve all investigated in our collective culture. The idea that many great artists, creators, writers are often plagued with mental health issues. The idea that some of the greatest writers experienced unfathomable tragedies or chronic depression, and that this somehow is inextricably linked to the deepness of their work.
The idea that tragedy or chronic depression allows for better art is imprinted in popular culture to the extent, that today, we’re talking about how the romanticization of mental health might be a new toxic trap we’ve created for ourselves.
For years, I’ve thought about the intricacies of honesty. Or rather, what it means for us to have honest conversations about what art is and how it’s defined by our experiences. I have lived with moderate depression for most of my adulthood. Its worst symptoms have been stabilized for years through medication. Although bouts of incapacitating depression are few and far between for me today, I think about the imprints it has left on me as a writer. Do I tend to write about the darker elements of human experience because of it? And if so, why do most people who know me think I am a super optimist in the way I approach life?
I am coming to believe that every human being has many ways to label, approach, or deal with what we may generically call the ‘obstacles’ of life. And they all show up in what we create. Are the challenging parts of our life critical to the quality of our work?
Most of my twenties would have had me nodding in agreement. The glorification of pain was the perfect road for me. A space that offered a payoff for the trauma I experienced. A place where I could feel included and validated.
This was the same glorification that also birthed many variations of ‘inspiration porn’. A space where our human tendency for voyeurism could quell its curiosity by reading about other people’s experiences while thanking God they didn’t have to go through it. But this would be a reductionist view on its own. Because narratives about or inspired by real life trauma allows many others to resonate and give articulation to things they could not express or write about. It has allowed people to take issues like mental illness more seriously and offered new and evolving language that continue to empower people.
Now, in my late thirties, my own path with mental illness has been a negotiation of sorts. A partial rejection of the institutionalized labels and boxes it has created. A partial rejection that it is what defines me or my writing in any way. Sounds a lot like sitting on the fence? Perhaps, I find it healthier not to have a complete answer. A space where we’ve realized a lot about ourselves over time and pause now, to embrace the evolution of our thoughts to come. Much like the stories we write, they don’t have perfectly wrapped endings. Our characters and worlds, real and unreal, don’t have exact answers or explanations either.
Personally, depression has allowed me to observe people more. It made me imagine more about their circumstances; what makes them sad, driven, ambitious, happy, static, or numb? Maybe it’s a response born out of my own need to feel something on my worst days. Maybe this habit has nothing to do with what I end up writing.
I do see commonalities with writers. No matter how different we are, I see us as distinct observers. Even when I think about the most ‘extroverted’ writers, the ones who seem to be in the moment, the life of the party, I see another part of their minds working. One that’s taking notes. Questioning something. Imagining another moment in that same one.
I try to ask all my writer friends the same question in different ways. What makes you write? The answers are too diverse for me to come up with some grand theory.
I can tell you this. I am not sure if depression deepened my writing. I can tell you that it certainly allowed me to make sense of it. It created structure for me to negotiate the world that I lived in. It steadied me and helped me find a cruising altitude. It allowed me the freedom to articulate things I’d never have the courage to say in person. It expanded my idea of trauma, mental health, and human nature.
I find that depression is a part of me, and like all the other parts of me, they come together and write.
Do you think trauma, mental illness, or tragedy make writers more powerful with their craft? How do you feel about defining your craft through your real life experiences? Do you feel like talking about these things can help all of us?
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Rheea Mukherjee is the author of The Body Myth, (February 2019/ Unnamed Press). Her fiction and non-fiction have been published in several publications including Scroll.in, Southern Humanities Review, Out of Print, QLRS, and Anti Serious among others.
She is the co-founder of Write Leela Write, a design and content laboratory in Bangalore, India.
She spends most of her spare time eating and making vegan hipster things.
Learn more at www.rheeamukherjee.com, and follow her on Twitter and Facebook.
This was a thoughtful post, Rheea. Thank you for sharing. I’ve battled anxiety and depression for as long as I can remember. Its roots are in trauma, yet even at the time a part of me was able to step back and see the circumstances causing it as a tragedy. Through my teenage years, if asked, and if honest, I’d have said depression was my best friend. She was the only one who understood the fear I faced each hour of each day. Later, after I’d escaped, she became my enemy because she wouldn’t let me go.
Greater awareness would open people’s eyes and increase understanding. It’d also save lives. There’s a long ways to go. I often see posts on social media from people about mental health awareness who are then blind to obvious signs. Awareness doesn’t necessarily mean action. Quite often, simply asking someone if they’re okay can help ground them, pull them back.
Mental health trials create the potential for greater insight and a more powerful writer, but not necessarily the wisdom or talent to wield that awareness. I use my experiences as another tool in my toolbox. It doesn’t define my writing, but I am proud of the additional depth it adds to characters and that my themes are hopeful.
Hi Christina, all of what you say here resonates. It definitely adds depth, and depression has a been a friend, something intimate and known to me only. Thank you for readings and sharing.
Thank you for your insightful and honest article. I too wrestle with depression and I believe it has created more insight and compassion as a writer.
Does a step away from what many would call NORMAL, but most call an illness, increase one’s empathy? So much has been written about the fine line between mental health and those who struggle with bouts of depression and often need medication and counseling. For me, there was a time when I needed counseling to push away impending depression. In that moment, what I really needed was someone to listen to me, to let me cry, to hug me. Empathy is sometimes hard to find in our fellow humans, so busy with their own lives, so tied to a schedule. There are many definitions for mental health and as a former nurse, I believe in medications for depression, counseling, both, when they are needed. Maybe this is a fallacy, and it’s not based in any medical research that I can quote, but being empathetic in this wild and challenging world is difficult. Some respond immediately, take the pain to themselves. Others–forget you, don’t trouble me, it’s your problem! Writing can be connected to empathy, is often the fuel for stories. Thank you for sharing yours.
I love the final bits of wisdom is this post. A wonderful place to land…and take off: “I am not sure if depression deepened my writing. I can tell you that it certainly allowed me to make sense of it. It created structure for me to negotiate the world that I lived in. It steadied me and helped me find a cruising altitude. It allowed me the freedom to articulate things I’d never have the courage to say in person. It expanded my idea of trauma, mental health, and human nature.
I find that depression is a part of me, and like all the other parts of me, they come together and write.”
With gratitude.
I think writers THINK it helps. There are writers who claim entire novels written that they don’t remember, some fueled by alcohol as well.
I have to work myself to an optimistic place before I can write. But it is hard to go long stretches – as a writer must – without some encouragement from somewhere.
You write who you are, from where you are. How could it be otherwise and be authentic? I know I wouldn’t be writing the WIP had I not had chronic illness to fuel it – I don’t have THAT much imagination, nor would I have chosen the subject of how society views those who are ill or disabled and how they come to view themselves as a result of the pervasive and relentless culture that surrounds them.
Writers put into words what readers feel, so the reading resonates. Even when the purpose is entertainment. It gives us a way to work out our own demons.
The depression has been debilitating to the point of not being able to write anything when it sinks me.
I’m so sorry. Not being able to write is a special form of torture for a writer. People don’t get how devastating it is. Because most people don’t deal with things by writing.
Let’s be honest. Trauma, tragedy and mental illness are not good experiences. They hurt. They impair. They do not uplift, they bring down. They shred one’s self-confidence. They bring isolation. I would not say that any of those have made me stronger, more compassionate, a better writer, or have fed me story material.
I would say, rather, that the positive side for me has been recovery. Treatment for grief and depression has showed me that there is hope and a way forward. Exercise, sleep and healthy eating have made me happier. Connecting with friends–including friends found here on WU–has lifted my spirits. I am not alone. When burdens are lifted or at least eased, writing is easier. Confidence comes back.
Thus, the part of what you say that I heartily agree with is that it’s good to talk about it. Why don’t we? Because in the depths of depression we isolate. Suffering is glamorized at the same time as it inhibits and shames. It’s remarkable to me that in this age of hyper sensitivity, victim vigilance and trauma-speak there still is a stigma. Or maybe we are just afraid to reach out and say what’s wrong.
But we should. We are not alone. Depression is common. Depression is human. To greater or lesser degrees it happens to us all. I say, let’s not glamorize it and pretend there is writer food in it. Instead, let’s connect. Recover. Find out that the benefit for writing is not in suffering but in finding our strength. It’s good to know that we can work through bad experiences and come out better for it.
In fact, I can’t think of a better definition of story.
This.
I’m reading a delightful book by Alice McDermott, Child of Mine, and the young protagonist is a wonderful storyteller, not out of trauma, but out of joy that bubbles over. She’s a magnet. We tell the stories we can tell, colored by our experiences and imaginations.
Rheea, my heart hurt to read that you’ve suffered so much depression for so long. I’ve had bouts that lasted months and like Alicia, I’ve lived with chronic illness, so I sympathize. Maybe this book will be of some help: A Mind of Your Own: the truth about depression and how women can heal their bodies and reclaim their lives by Dr. Kelly Brogan. And I will pray for your complete healing.
Rheea, thanks for the openness of your thoughts on a sometimes-unsettling topic. I turned off the light therapy box I use in the winter months, for 30 minutes a day, a short while ago. I’m lucky in that the smothering sense of isolation and numbness that I’ve had for periods since my adolescence is much better now. I think that daily meditation and daily exercise have helped. I don’t know if the whiskey has helped, but it tastes good.
I think my own struggles have made me more sympathetic/empathetic to the woundings we all get in this world, and more intrigued by the wonderful kaleidoscope (and unpredictable digestive tract) of the mind, which can help in finding the soul of stories. Thanks.
One January day in Minnesota, before the Prozac took effect and the lightbox arrived, I had to tell a friend that no, I couldn’t get together later that day because I felt like a steamroller had just run over me and then backed up to finish the job. (Believe me, I was grateful to have a friend I could admit that to!) She said, “Really? Because you seem so chipper.”
I think the depression I’ve negotiated with for 30-odd years has deepened my empathy — and my ability to imagine complex backstories for even the most unsympathetic characters. I hadn’t realized I presented a “happy face” until my friend pointed it out; now I wonder how many seemingly together people are wearing masks.
“It allowed me the freedom to articulate things I’d never have the courage to say in person.”
Yes, it has done that. Sometimes I can’t even read my stories out loud but I can write them. I’ve relinquished my power to depression most of my life but something has clicked this year. I have hope, I can write, I can produce. I’ve even been happy, even though that still feels like a swear word to me. Something I’ve done has delivered me from depression and given me life. I really appreciate your post and identify with it very much, but I now have hope!
So glad for you, Andrea. Write on!